Any Other Name
by Amazon-Aviator
Summary: In which Wilbur objects to Lewis's new name, because seriously, who has time to pronounce that many syllables?


Genfic from me is SO rare. Don't get used to it.

Found this buried in my files, thought I'd throw it out there.

* * *

He'll always be Lewis to Wilbur.

Cornelius is just too much name for a seventeen year old, never mind how much he's accomplished. Wilbur is sure it looks very nice in script on all his diplomas and degrees, engraved in marble and gold on all his awards, printed in humble black letters in the newspapers, but Lewis is not a diploma or an award or even a humble newspaper; he is a boy. For all his genius, he can't even _vote_ yet. Cornelius Robinson is a good name for a hospital wing or a university library. It is not a good name for a boy. Wilbur has no problem letting Lewis know this.

"It's _excessive_ is what it is. Too many syllables. I give up halfway through when I say it in my head. And out loud? 'Hello, Cornelius...' see, I used up so much energy saying your name, I'm spent. I can't remember what I wanted to say, now. Good job."

The truth is, anyone else who knew him "before" calls him Lewis, too. He doesn't see Goob, er--_Mike_ very often anymore--which is a shame because they get along much better when they don't have to live together—but since he's in Franny's class, they _do_ cross paths occasionally, and he usually has a friendly pat on the back and a cheerful, "Hey Lewis, how's life?" at the ready for his former roommate. He's been spotted in Liz's company with increasing frequency, who tends to favor _Brainiac_ to either of his other names, but that's just a Liz thing, really. When she's feeling sociable—which is not very often—she too, calls him Lewis.

Mildred is the one he has to convince _not_ to call him Cornelius. It will never sound right coming from her. He visits Sixth Street as frequently as his schedule allows because, as he has only recently come to realize, Sixth Street was his first home, and Mildred his first family. He never asked her whether he came with his name or if she gave it to him, but either way, it seems a sort of sacrilege to ask Mildred call him anything else. He tells her, "Mildred, _please_, it's _Lewis_" even though the name on the donation checks says differently.

"It's useful," Lewis argues with his best-friend-future-son. "People take a big name more seriously. That works to my advantage, being so young." He wipes greasy hands on a rag and pushes his glasses back up his nose. "Besides, as far as I'm concerned, you're not born yet. We could still name you Cornelius Robinson the second. We'll call you Junior!"

Wilbur makes a noise that sounds like the phonetic pronunciation of something a cat writes when it walks across a keyboard. "You wouldn't _dare_."

"Wouldn't I?" Lewis gives Wilbur a sly, mischievous look he never would have learned without constant exposure to such deviousness. He wonders if he is the first father in history to be conditioned by his own son.

"No. You won't even _remember_, you've got more than a decade to go." Wilbur sprawls out on his back with his hands behind his head, watching puffy white clouds float through the flawless blue sky behind the glassy dome of the observatory ceiling. He'll never know how Lewis gets any work done; one look at that sky and Wilbur wants to be outside. "So, what the hell are you waiting for, anyway?"

Lewis's blonde eyebrows shoot up over the rims of his glasses. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying, all the scrapbooks would have me believe you and mom have been inseparable since puberty. So why wait so long?"

"We're kind of _young_, don't you think? What's your rush?"

"My rush? My _rush_?" Wilbur sits up, scandalized. "Don't you want me to be born?"

"Wilbur," Lewis says, shrugging out of his lab coat. "Haven't you ever wondered what's going to happen to this--" he punctuates _this_ by pointing at Wilbur, then at himself. _This_, our friendship, our dependency, our constant messing about with time and the years of therapy we will both need when we finally grow up. "—when you're born?"

"Not really, no."

Lewis smiles a kind of polite smile, like _of course you haven't, that was a rhetorical question._ "You know, a lot of times, when _normal_ couples have a baby, their social lives kind of fall apart for a while, because, you know, _baby_. Tallulah just had a baby right? What's that like?"

"Insanity," Wilbur says, rolling his eyes. Then, "Oh."

"Right _oh_. Look, unless you plan on changing your own diapers, and I don't recommend it, we're a strange enough family as it is—"

"We won't be able to hang out after I'm born."

"You wouldn't like it anyway, it's so weird seeing yourself as a baby."

Wilbur dwells on this for a while, a childish pout darkening his handsome face.

"And," Lewis adds, "It won't be so bad. I'll still be around. Just old. It'll be harder for me, you know. You being young and not knowing about any of this. Besides, you might have a family of your own in ten years."

Wilbur perks up a little. "Play dates? Our kids could—"

"_No,_" Lewis says sternly. "Absolutely not. Nice try though."

"Aww."

"It has to stop eventually, you know." Lewis says this softly, with gravity. And the thing is, he's doesn't really mind. He loves having Wilbur around as a friend, but he looks forward to the day Wilbur becomes _family_, for _real_, in the truest sense of the word.


End file.
